Remorse
by Pelahnar
Summary: Voldemort takes Harry's advice and reflects on his crimes. And what did Hermione say would happen if someone who had made Horcruxes felt remorse for what they had done . . .?
1. Of Pain and Regret

**Remorse**

**A/N: I do not own Harry Potter. That never-ending mantra.**

**This is an alternate ending to the Harry Potter series. It starts on page 741 of my copy of Deathly Hallows, right when Harry is telling Voldemort to try to feel remorse. In this version, I have decided to show what would've happened to him - or at least, what I think would've happen - if he had actually done that. **

"Before you try to kill me, I'd advise you to think about what you've done . . . Think, and try for some remorse, Riddle . . . "

"What is this?" Voldemort cried. Of all the things that Harry had said to him, beyond any revelation or taunt, nothing had shocked him like this.

"It's your one last chance," said Harry, "it's all you've got left . . . I've seen what you'll be otherwise . . . Be a man . . . try . . . Try for some remorse . . ."

"You dare –?" said Voldemort again, but he was unable to summon the same amount of venom.

"Yes, I dare," said Harry, "because Dumbledore's last plan hasn't backfired on me at all. It's backfired on you, Riddle."

Voldemort's hand was trembling on the Elder Wand. Harry Potter's words had affected him more than the boy could ever imagine. He was suddenly pulled into a flashback, unintentionally remembering the first murder he'd ever committed.

_Her name was Myrtle . . . Moaning Myrtle, they called her. She was always upset about something or other and no one liked her. No more than she deserved, of course, being the filthy little Mudblood she was . . . add that to her too-thick glasses and constantly moping personality, it was a surprise that she hadn't been killed sooner. _

_It was so _convenient _that she chose that particular bathroom to cry in. With a few whispered words, the sink that led to the Chamber of Secrets opened and the basilisk appeared. "Kill her!" It was so easy – the snake didn't even have to do anything; Moaning Mudblood Myrtle opened the door of the stall without any prompting. I watched with a wild, uncontrollable joy as my first victim locked gazes with the basilisk, then collapsed. _

_And I made her death into the first Horcrux, the diary. I took my time, as it was the first time and I needed to take particular care to get it right. This diary would be used for greater purposes eventually and it had to be perfect._

_Besides, there was no need to hurry . . . no one _cared_ about Moaning Myrtle . . . _

_And if no one cared about her, even in her death, then why should I? Why should I care that I killed her? She was a Mudblood . . . a nobody . . . worse than a nobody . . ._

Voldemort's hand trembled still harder as the memories sped forward through the next year and he relived the visit to the village of Little Hangleton, where he'd murdered his father and grandparents. They were Muggles – worse even than Mudbloods, of course – and yet, they were family, and could hardly be called nobodies . . .

_They were sitting at dinner, all three of them. I stood behind them – invisible, of course – and examined the youngest with interest. He looked so much like me, or rather, I looked so much like him that it almost sickened me. To think that I could share not just the name, but the appearance of a Muggle!_

_This was him then – that horrible man who had abandoned my mother when he realized she was a witch and caused her to give up living, leaving me in that orphanage! As I stared that the man I hated so much, my anger grew and suddenly I cast aside the spell of invisibility. The three Riddles turned, and I saw identical looked or terror on each of their faces. It was both liberating and shaming to see such fear on the faces of those I must call relatives . . . _

_"Who are you?" Mrs. Riddle cried, leaping to her feet. I raised Morfin's wand to point it at her. _

_I had not planned on speaking to them, but I could not help it. "I? My name – _Avada Kedavra _–" My grandmother died. " – is –_ Avada Kedavra _– " So did my grandfather. I turned to my father, if this man can deserve such a title, and said quietly, "Tom Riddle. Your son, Tom Riddle._ Avada Kedavra!" _And so the ring that I'd taken from Morfin became the second Horcrux._

_And now I'm supposed to feel for these Muggles, this family that abandoned me? _

There was silence in the Great Hall as Voldemort and Harry continued to circle. Once more, his memories fast-forwarded to the next Horcuxes.

_Hepzibah Smith. A rich, greedy woman with hundreds of priceless treasures. She didn't know what she was getting herself into, showing me the cup and locket – future Horcuxes, both of them, and precious items that belonged to Hogwarts founders. The locket was rightfully mine and the cup deserved a better owner than Hepzibah Smith. She died to make the cup a protector of part of his soul – a noble death, though she didn't know it . . ._

_Still, he felt a small amount of guilt at her death. She, after all, was no Mudblood. She was pureblood – and related to Helga Hufflepuff herself, no less. _

Before Voldemort could banish the guilt, more memories came, faster and faster.

_The locket wasn't transformed so quickly. Now that I think about it, I'm not even sure who it was that died to turn the locket into a Horcrux . . . a Muggle . . . a poor Muggle, I think. He lived in the village near the cave . . . I killed him out of convenience – he lived so close to the place I planned on hiding a Horcrux . . ._

_And the diadem. Again, a Muggle, this time an Albanian peasant. She lived near to where Helena Ravenclaw had hidden diadem – again, she was killed because she was there. So she could serve a greater purpose . . ._

_Then there was Bertha. Her death, as he had explained over and over to Wormtail, had been necessary. Not only to make Nagini into a Horcrux – a decision made out of desperation, had I a choice, I'd never have made her a Horcrux – but also because she knew too much. About Crouch, about Wormtail, about me. She had to be gotten rid of._

Voldemort, still circling, was amazed at himself. Never before had he attempted to justify killing people. Never before had he needed to – they were lesser beings, weren't they? Why did he need reasons to kill them? Still, now that he was thinking of reasons, they seemed hollow and false.

_Her parents were Muggles . . . he abandoned a son he didn't know he had . . . they were Muggles . . . she had something he wanted . . . they were there . . . she knew things and had no other use . . . _

With the possible exception of his father, none of these people had done anything to him personally. And then there were the countless others that he'd killed or had killed.

Aurors.

Muggles.

Anyone who defied him.

Lily and James Potter – because they wouldn't leave their son.

The other boy that had shown up at the graveyard, not even because he fought, but because there was no need for him.

For another minute or so, memories flashed through his head of all the times he'd ever used the Killing Curse. Most of the people were nameless; many were faceless, just shadows that had gotten in his way. An unknowable number of people were dead because of him.

And why?

Why!

Along with the question that he'd never before bothered to ask came excruciating pain.

It was the pain of the people he'd killed. All the pain they'd ever experienced and all the pain they would've if they'd lived. Then the pain of everyone who'd known the victims – parents, siblings, lovers, friends. He relieved each death over and over, from the perspective of anyone who'd been close to the people he'd murdered.

As it escalated, Voldemort began to shriek. This was unbearable, intolerable. He threw aside the Elder Wand and, still screaming, put his hands over his ears as though trying to block out the pain. Tears began running down his face and he didn't even bother trying to stop them.

Unable to make it stop, Voldemort did something he'd never done before – he ran. He ran from the school that had been the first thing he'd cared for, his first home – and the first place he'd committed murder. He ran until he crossed the border and was outside the Anti-Apparation spells and then he disapparated. Within minutes he was back in the secluded forest of Albania, writhing on the ground in pain, trying to stop seeing phantoms of all the people he'd ever killed.

* * *

Silence reigned in the Great Hall. Everyone was staring at the door that Voldemort had fled through. Finally Hermione spoke up, "I don't believe it!"

Everyone now stared at her. "I don't believe it." She repeated faintly. "He _actually_ – no, it's not possible . . ." she trailed off.

After a few seconds Ron said. "If you feel like explaining some time this century, let us know, all right?" A few people laughed, but most were still focused on Hermione.

She sighed. "Remorse. He's feeling remorse." A disbelieving muttering swept through the hall. "Think about it – all the things he's done, the people he's killed – and now he's feeling remorse for all of it. It's the kind of pain that can destroy you – worse than the Cruciatus Curse. A living Hell – literally. Even if he survives, I don't think we'll have to worry about Lord Voldemort anymore. Not after he goes through that."

* * *

Slowly the pain began to fade, finally becoming a dull ache. Tom Riddle opened his eyes and stared up at the trees. How long had he been here? Days . . . Months . . . Years . . .? He sat up and looked around. Nothing around showed any sign of the passage of time. He carefully pushed himself to his feet and gasped as he saw his hands - not pearly white, like they had been when he was Lord Voldemort, but light tan. A color they hadn't been for years.

Suddenly, he looked around again and, seeing a stream nearby, he rushed over to it. He gasped again upon seeing the reflection - his eyes were brown again, and the pupils normal. He even had hair - brown, though graying. He smiled - his first smile of true happiness in years, perhaps his first ever.

Tom stood up again, his happiness fading as he remembered the past - had it really been more than sixty years since he'd killed Myrtle? The ache, left over from the intense pain, was still there and probably always would be. But right now he couldn't dwell on it. He had apologies to give - to the friends and family of all his past victims. To the wizarding world in general.

And first - to Harry Potter.

**So? I think it's an interesting twist, for Voldemort to realize all his crimes and actually change. I have no idea how long he was in the forest, but I'm leaning more toward months or years than days, considering everything he'd done. Did you like it? Not like it? Please review! I'm considering adding more, of the Wizarding World's reaction to Voldemort's transformation, but I won't if you don't want me to.**


	2. Of Souls and Apologies

**Remorse Chapter 2**

**I'm excited, because this is officially my first multi-chapter Harry Potter fanfic! (I have written a couple one-shots if you would like to read them)**

**Disclaimer: I'm sorry to inform one of my kind reviewers, that I am not JK Rowling, even if they think the story seems like an alternate ending that she might write.**

**On that note, thank you! thank you! thank you! to _all_ of the people who reviewed the first chapter: snape's-doe-513, Jerzy, foxtrot852, and Igilbert1982! You are the bes****t! I really really hope that this chapter - and at least one more, I don't know how long this is going to be - doesn't disappoint you!**

Tom pulled out his wand – the phoenix feather wand, of course. The Elder Wand was back at the school, but he no longer cared. He stared at the wand thoughtfully, turning it over and over in his hands as though he'd never seen it before. The things this wand had done . . .

He snapped it in half.

"I am a wizard no longer," he whispered, and let the pieces of his old wand slip through his fingers. It hit the ground with a soft thump and Tom knew that all his magical power had gone with it – because that was what happened when you renounced magic. His mother had done it, many years ago, and now he followed in her footsteps. He'd never use magic again, even if he wanted to. But he didn't want to.

Over the next few weeks he made his way back to England, working at odd jobs to afford train tickets. He learned that it been over nineteen years since the end of the Second Wizarding War, when he had disappeared. He took to using the name Thomas Gaunt, on the off chance that in those nineteen the years, Lord Voldemort's birth name had become known.

As the hero of the Second Wizarding War, there was no lack of information on Harry Potter. There were even books written about him in the Muggle world, taken to be fantasy. Tom learned quickly not only where he lived, but also his occupation – Head of the Auror Office at the Ministry – and the names of his wife and children. He thought of the boy he'd understood – or thought he understood – so well almost twenty years ago, but could not imagine him being a father.

Tom went to the post office and addressed a letter to Harry Potter.

* * *

Harry and Ginny returned home after seeing off James, Albus and Rose, meeting Ron and Hermione there for the second annual "start of the kids' school year" get together. They were exchanging stories of their first experiences of Hogwarts and assuring each other that Albus and Rose would be fine, when Ginny suddenly said, "I don't recognize that owl."

A large barn owl was sitting on the windowsill. Harry went to let it in, but as soon as he took the letter, it left. "Probably a public owl, from the post office." He said, opening the letter.

"Who's it from?" asked Ron. Harry didn't answer, just stared at the parchment like he'd never seen anything like it. "Harry?"

Harry paused, then read the extremely short letter out loud. "'Dear Harry Potter, I would like to inform you that I have done as you advised and could not regret my past actions more. I would also like to speak to you on this matter and will arrive at your house on September 1, at approximately 1:00 in the afternoon. Sincerely, Tom Marvolo Riddle.'" Harry faltered before reading the post-script. "'P.S. I have broken my wand and renounced magic. You have nothing to fear from me.'"

For a few minutes, none of them said anything. Then Ron said, "Tom Riddle – as in, You-Know-Who?"

"How many Tom Riddles do we know?" Hermione asked exasperatedly. "D'you think he's telling the truth?"

Harry shook his head and crumpled the letter, "I don't know. I have a hard time believing it."

"Maybe we should send the kids to see Luna for the afternoon." Ginny suggested. "Then – in case he's not . . ." She left the rest of the sentence hang in the air.

Hermione nodded. "Hugo! Lily!" the two emerged from Lily's room where they'd been playing – with Barbie dolls by the look of it. "How would you like to go visit Aunt Luna?"

They looked disappointed. "But – Lorcan and Lysander are a Hogwarts." Lily complained.

"Yes," said Ginny. "But you can play with the Crumple-Horned Snorkack." The kids grinned and immediately ran off to do just that. The Crumple-Horned Snorkack, as Hermione had pointed out time and time again, was nothing more or less than a rare breed of knarl that Luna had discovered on one of her many Snorkack hunting expeditions. Luna maintained that while it might _look_ like a type of knarl, looks were not everything. Lily and Hugo absolutely loved the cute and playful creature, no matter what it was.

The next hour passed slowly, with little talk. Once Hermione asked, "If he really has renounced magic – how do you suppose he's going to get here? Walk?"

"Can't, can he?" Ron answered. "He's not exactly unrecognizable."

Finally, the clock struck one. At almost the same time, the doorbell rang. Harry looked at the others grimly and answered it.

On the doorstep was a man who no one would recognize as Lord Voldemort. He was, as far as Harry could tell, an older version of the teenager Harry had seen in the pensieve, before the influence of Horcruxes. "Tom Riddle." He said.

"Harry Potter." Even his voice had changed, no longer high and cold, but much more like the voice that had charmed so many teachers and students at Hogwarts. And yet – it was different even from that. Harry couldn't put his finger on why, but it made him want to trust the former Lord Voldemort. Or at least, ended the urge to immediately put him under arrest and take him to Azkaban.

"Come in."

Riddle looked surprised, apparently not expecting any sort of hospitality, and Harry couldn't blame him – he was surprised himself.

When Riddle followed Harry inside, Ron and Ginny raised their eyebrows, shocked at his changed appearance but Hermione lowered hers, in confusion. She know more about Horcruxes than anyone else in the room – perhaps anyone in the world – besides Riddle himself, and knew that the transformation in front of her was not simply the result of remorse or regret. It was something much more.

What he did next shocked them all anew. He went down on one knee and said to Harry, "Harry Potter, I am humbly sorry for your parents deaths. I cannot give any reason for killing them for there is none, but please understand that I was a different man then, and I beg your forgiveness. Though I understand if you cannot give it."

"I –" Harry glanced at the others, as though hoping one of them would tell him it was a dream. "I don't know. I have to think about it." Riddle nodded and stood up. "You do know," Harry continued. "That even if I do forgive you – and I'm not sure if I do – the rest of the wizarding world won't. They'll want revenge."

He nodded solemnly and said. "And I wholly intend to give it to them. After coming here, I plan to present myself to the Head of Magical Law Enforcement and request that I am allowed to make a public apology and then be executed for crimes against humanity. I wanted to make this apology in person."

"I am the Head of Magical Law enforcement," said Hermione. "And the wizarding world doesn't have a death penalty."

"If you had just spent nineteen years examining every crime that I committed as Lord Voldemort in painful detail, you would understand that they deserve nothing less." He told her.

"Nineteen years . . ." she murmured.

"That is how long has past?"

"Yes . . . but I'm not sure . . . I don't think that's how it's supposed to work . . ." she paused. "Your Horcruxes were destroyed – all seven of them."

"Six."

"No – seven, but the number's not important. What is important is that they are all gone and have been since Neville beheaded Nagini. The point is, remorse is supposed to help you put your soul back together, but it's not supposed to work – not completely – if the Horcruxes are destroyed."

"So, what are you saying?" asked Ron.

"I'm not sure – but I don't think that the pain of remorse could have lasted nineteen years, not if only an eighth of the original soul was still alive. Two or three years, maybe, not nineteen. And there shouldn't have been any change in appearance."

"Then what do you suggest I've been doing for the past nineteen years?"

"I think . . . you've been growing a new soul."

**A/N: Well, _I_ think this is an interesting idea - but what does it matter what I think? What do you think? Please review!**


	3. The End

**A/N: I don't not own Harry Potter. **

**Chapter 3: The End**

Tom took a step back in shock at the woman's pronouncement. "That's not possible." He told her.

"I know, but…" She trailed off again. "How old are you?" She asked suddenly.

The subject change threw him only slightly, but when he opened his mouth to answer nothing came out. "How old _am_ I?" he murmured. The truth was that he wasn't sure. Age was, after all, only how people kept track of how long it would before they died. He'd realized that not long after beginning his quest for immortality and immediately stopped keeping track. But he knew the he – that Voldemort – had returned to power about fifty years after leaving school, when he was seventeen. Add the nineteen years that had passed since the Second Wizarding War and… "About ninety, I think."

The woman nodded – he thought her name was Hermione, Hermione Granger. She was one of Harry Potter's friends, one of those who had helped him destroy the Horcruxes. Tom grimaced just thinking about them. "That sounds right. But you don't look ninety – you look closer to fifty. The 50-year-old you might've been if you'd never made the Horcruxes." She, too, winced as she said the word. "The past twenty years that you spent reliving your memories – either repairing your soul, or growing a new one, I don't know – you didn't grow any older in those years. If anything, you _lost_ about as much time from your age." She frowned slightly, pondering her own conclusion.

Tom was beginning to feel a bit impatient. And angry at himself for _being_ impatient with one of those he owed so much to – she had likely seen friends, teachers, and perhaps even family die at his hands or by his cold orders. She had as much right as anyone to analyze his changes, but he was upset that she was trying to reason it out at all. What did any of it matter? Whether through repairing his soul or growing a new one, Tom was now a different person and all he wanted to do was beg forgiveness from the world – expecting none, of course – and be punished for his crimes as soon as possible.

As Hermione continued to think, confusion etching her face, Tom turned to Harry. "What did she mean, seven Horcruxes?" He was trying to distract himself from the growing irritation at Hermione. Maybe she was right and a seventh – or an eighth – of his soul was still the same as Voldemort's. Maybe this anger toward her came from there. It certainly seemed like something the man he used to be would've felt. "I only made six."

"You only made six on purpose." Harry answered. "The diary, the ring, the locket, the cup, the diadem, and Nagini." Tom was only a little surprised that Harry listed the items that had once been so precious to him as easily as he himself would've done. As Voldemort had known and understood Harry, surely Harry had known and understood Voldemort, and from that he would've ingrained the Horcruxes in his memory. "But there was one that you made by accident as well. Don't ask me how, that's the sort of thing Hermione would understand. But somehow, when you tried to kill me, you made another Horcrux…of me."

"You? But Horcruxes cannot be made by accident. It takes spells and…" He sighed. "We're different, aren't we? There's no explaining what happens around us, because nothing like it has ever happened before. And likely – hopefully – will never happen again."

Nodding, Harry murmured fervent agreement. "It's what our…connection…came from. I don't know what your end of it was like, but I could feel some of your more extreme emotions and toward the end I could even look through your eyes. Once I even did it on purpose. It's why I had to come to the clearing, that last night – and why I didn't die. You didn't kill me then. You killed an eighth of yourself."

"You seem to understand a lot more of it than I do." Tom said, glancing at Hermione – who was still lost in thought – and the other two in the room. One he knew to be Ron Weasley, who had helped Harry and Hermione destroy the Horcruxes. The other looked so much like Ron that he decided it had to be his sister. Ginny Weasley, Harry's wife. They both looked a little nervous and neither was looking directly at him, both very quiet. He couldn't blame them.

"Not really." Harry replied. "I'm mostly repeating what Dumbledore and Hermione told me. If you want more answers, ask her. She's the one who read that awful book – _Secrets of the Darkest Art_."

Tom had read it too, when he was thirteen. It was not from there that the longing for immortality began, but certainly what had made it an achievable goal. Awful book, Harry called it? It had been, yes, but darkly fascinating at the time. "Did she? Why?"

"It was the only way to defeat you, as far as we knew. And besides, she's always on the lookout for new knowledge. Though by choice, she would've passed over that particular subject."

"Some things shouldn't be common knowledge. Some things shouldn't be known at all." Tom growled darkly. Harry nodded again.

"We burned it, afterwards. It and all the other books about Horcruxes that Hogwarts had – all the other books that we've been able to find on the subject anywhere. If I have my way, no one will ever be able to make a Horcrux again. Ever."

Tom decided not to argue. This was Harry Potter after all – who was he, Tom Riddle, to argue with him? But he didn't believe what Harry had said. There was always going to be evil in the world, and it didn't need books and instructions to spread. Someone else would discover how to split their soul in a quest for immortality; if they didn't, they would learn something worse. But perhaps not having anything to go by would slow them. Perhaps.

"Maybe…" Hermione spoke again, and everyone turned to her. "It must have something to do with the fact that you made more than one Horcrux. I can't think of anything else. Everything I read about the…cure…for Horcruxes – there wasn't much, but everything there _was_, was based on making and feeling remorse for making _one_ Horcrux." Tom remembered that to be the one shortcoming – that was how he'd thought of it at the time anyway – the one shortcoming of the books about Horcruxes. "I was surprised, when we got your letter, that you'd survived the pain at all. It's supposed to be able to destroy you if the crimes were great enough. And as you said, yours were…by no means limited to the making of Horcruxes. If, as you said, you deserve no less than death, then why did the pain not kill you entirely? The fact that you made more than one makes all the difference, I think –"

"But why does it make any difference at all?" Tom broke in. "It doesn't. The fact that I regret what I've done doesn't change the fact that I did it. And if the pain of remorse _didn't_ destroy me, then the reason is because I knew I wasn't finished. I couldn't just die in agony in a secluded forest – no, I had to come back. I had to apologize. And once I do, then it _will_ kill me, whether the wizarding world has a death penalty or not."

Her forehead creased in confusion again and Tom realized what it was she didn't understand. "Did you think it was gone? Nineteen years of pain, and then nothing? It's still there, Hermione Granger, less pronounced than before, but no less real. It isn't finished with me yet."

Silence fell after he finished, but it didn't last long. The front door burst open and in tumbled two children of about ten. "Mommy," said the red-haired girl. "Auntie Luna isn't even home. She left on another expedition just after she dropped off Lorcan and Lysander at the train station. She…" The girl's eyes fell on Tom. "Who's that?" she asked. Before anyone could answer – what could they say, after all? – she went on. "I'm Lily. Lily Potter. What's your name?"

For a few moments, Tom could do nothing but stare. Lily Potter? But he'd killed her years ago…and yet, it was her eyes, and Harry's. Those eyes had haunted him for the past nineteen years, and now they peered out eagerly from this child's face. "You're Harry Potter's daughter." He said quietly, putting a very slight emphasis on the last word. His daughter, not his mother. He glanced at Harry, and then answered the question. "My name is Tom." For so long, he'd hated that name, his father's name. But now, what else was there? Nothing. No matter, he wouldn't need a name for much longer. And besides, it didn't bother him anymore. "I have to go." He told Lily, before turning to the adults. "I'll come to the Ministry tomorrow?"

Without waiting for an answer, he walked out the door that the children had left open. He had expected that one of them would stop him – one was the Head of the Auror Office and another Head of Magical Law Enforcement. Surely they wouldn't just let him leave? But they did.

"Who _was_ that?" Hugo asked as Riddle left. "Tom isn't exactly an uncommon name. And why is he coming to the Ministry?"

"Never mind, honey." Hermione answered slowly. "He has business at the Ministry."

The kids glanced at each other – partly in confusion, partly in exasperation at the unsatisfactory answer – then Lily shrugged. "Whatever. Come on, Hugo! I'll race you down the street!" Without another word, she took off out the door laughing, and Hugo followed.

Harry closed the door and said thoughtfully. "Did it occur to any of you that we shouldn't just _trust_ Riddle to come to the Ministry tomorrow?" The others looked at him, then at each other. Ginny's mouth opened slightly in shock

"No!" she whispered, at little horrified. "It didn't, and you'd think it should have." Ron and Hermione quickly agreed.

Harry nodded. "It should've. But…I don't know. I felt almost too trusting of him from the beginning and I still fully expect that he'll come. But why? You don't think he was using magic on us? Some form of the Imperius curse? Or a Confundus charm?"

Hermione shook her head. "No. I don't think so. I – I know this sounds crazy, but I believe him. I don't think he could've changed that much in appearance, without having also changed inside. I do believe that his soul has regrown and is almost completely different from what it was. And if I'm going to believe all that, I might as well also believe that he _did_ renounce magic, which of course means that he couldn't have used any sort of curse on us."

"I agree." Ron said. "If he doesn't show up tomorrow, well, we'll deal with that if it happens, but until then I say we give him the benefit of the doubt. After all, if he _hasn't_ changed, then why would he bother coming here to apologize?"

The next day, Riddle was waiting in Harry's office before Harry even got there. "I wouldn't have bothered you." He said. "But I wasn't sure where to go." He had definitely changed, Harry realized. Even as an eleven-year-old, Voldemort had been independent and domineering. He wouldn't have admitted to needing help even if he had been entirely lost.

Harry hesitated. "Come with me." He led Riddle through the Ministry all the way to the first floor, picking up Ron and Hermione on the way. "Normally, this would be put in the newspaper…" he said as the four got into the elevator.

Riddle shook his head. "That's not enough. Not everyone gets the newspaper, and besides, it wouldn't be out until tomorrow."

"That's what I thought." Harry paused as the doors of the lift clanged open. Almost twenty years and a new soul after the Battle of Hogwarts, but he and Riddle could _still _think alike? The idea startled him, but it was not nearly as upsetting as it once might have been. Thinking like your enemy was necessary in war, but that didn't mean Harry had to like it. Now, however…it wasn't that he _liked_ it, but he wasn't particularly bothered by it either. "I'm taking you to see the Minister. I think Kingsley will be able to set something up."

When Kingsley was told that this was a matter of the utmost importance, he let them in immediately. It took a bit longer to explain everything, mostly done by Hermione, and longer still to get him to believe it. Strangely, what he had to be made believe was not so much that Riddle was truly reformed and more that the man in front of him truly _was_ the former Lord Voldemort. Most people wouldn't know what he looked like before the effects of the Horcruxes had taken hold.

Eventually, though, he nodded. "I can do a spell so that you can be heard anywhere in the world – I can even make it translate for those who don't speak English. Only witches and wizards, of course. I can't promise that people will believe you – either who you are or what you say. They think you're dead."

"They thought that once before, Minister." Riddle reminded him. "But it doesn't matter who believes that I'm alive: after this message, I won't be."

Kingsley nodded again and performed the spell. Riddle took a deep breath and began:

"Wizards and witches of the world. My name is Tom Riddle. Twenty years ago, I was the dark wizard Lord Voldemort who caused two wars and the deaths of countless innocent people. I have not been seen by anyone since the Battle of Hogwarts that ended the Second Wizarding War. But I am alive."

All over the world, wizards and witches stopped whatever they were doing and listened, even if they couldn't quite believe what they were hearing.

"I have spent the last nineteen years in a forest in Albania, reliving every crime that I ever committed over and over. I have realized what I've done and the pain I caused – and experienced that pain myself. I do not expect that the Wizarding World can forget what I did, nor do I expect your forgiveness, but I would like you to know that I have paid for every individual I've ever hurt or killed a hundred times over, and will continue to pay for it until I die. The pain of remorse can and will destroy me. Before it does, I want you all to know that I am sincerely sorry for everything that I've done."

Riddle fell silent and Kingsley lowered his wand. Harry thought that something had changed about the man – something more. Perhaps some of the burden of his past crimes had been lifted during the apology. Perhaps he had been able to forgive himself, a little. "It is returning." He said, and Harry didn't need more explanation than that. The pain of remorse really _was_ going to destroy him, just as he'd told Hermione it would.

Suddenly, Harry said. "I do forgive you, Tom Riddle."

Riddle smiled, then he bowed his head and dissolved.

**A/N: Sorry for not updating in so long. I actually forgot about this story for awhile. But it is finished now - I hope you like how I ended it. Please review!**


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